


the breath i’ve taken and the one i must

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme: "JxJVJ, sex pollen or aphrodisiac. I don't care who's been dosed. I don't care about top or bottom or switch, just let there be h/c and plot and porn." [<a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11667.html?thread=2028947#t2028947">x</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The town is quiet, unusually so for this time of the evening, and Javert has a sou or two in his pocket. He can sense the hunger in his stomach, and when he can no longer bring himself to ignore it he ducks into the nearest inn.

The silence that he creates, if brief, does not go unnoticed. Javert is aware of the infamy his profession attracts, aware of the distaste many of the people regard him with. It is a small sacrifice to make.

He asks for a supper of bread and wine and is greeted by a brusque nod; and then settles into a table near the door, from which he can observe the rest of the rowdy occupants. There is no outright law-breaking, as far as he can see, but he regrets deeply  his inability to arrest on suspicion.

The woman who brings him his meagre meal smirks as she does so; Javert averts his eyes from her ragged, low-cut attire, her purposely displayed cleavage, and murmurs in gratitude.

The bread is thick and tasteless and heavy on his tongue. He eats hungrily, for meals are irregular on the wages of a police inspector, and those that do come his way are oft insufficient. When he has finished – and he does not quite go so far as to lick the crumbs from the plate, for he has dignity still – he lifts the wine to his lips and drinks slowly.  

The wine is long gone and he is considering ordering another barely-afforded piece of bread when he notices the sudden warmth; it pools in his stomach and spreads across his skin, a ripple of gentle fire that sears and leaves him burning. The heat is enough to distract him from the shivers that wrack his shoulders and the blurring of his vision, but not from the arousal that stirs within him.

He retrieves the coins from his pocket with trembling hands, and the clatter they make as they clink together onto the table is deafening to his ears; and yet no one else looks up from their wine or their food.

 

Javert stumbles outside. It is cool and wet, rain pattering softly onto the cobblestones. It is not quite yet spring.

His feet do not give way under him, but he doubts them further with every step. His mind is clouded and his mouth parched as he shakes. He is not ill, no, surely; and yet what else could it be?

It takes him over ten minutes to reach the end of the street. By then a figure that had before been far behind, no more than a shadow in the distance, has neared across the street; and Javert recognises it. Monsieur Madeleine is walking. His collar is turned up against the cold, and he is cast into strange illumination by the lights of the taverns and inns he passes.

As Javert watches a peasant child runs past him, throwing a small bundle of rags into the air and catching it again. He does not quite manage, and Madeleine reaches down to retrieve it. When he hands over the ersatz toy, there is the glint of silver in his palm also; the child smiles and laughs and accepts the coin, skipping away.

Madeleine straightens up and adjusts his cravat.

It is clear when he recognises Javert, clearer still when he takes note of his stumbling gait, for his brow creases into a frown and he immediately begins to cross the street. Javert is reluctant to confront the man in any state – there is something strangely familiar about the man that he is unable to name, and that is unnerving – but particularly so now. The mayor will think him a drunkard, a pervert or a lunatic, a hapless and depraved fool each way, and most certainly unfit to keep law in the town. It will not do to present such a front to a man held in such high regard; if Javert commands little respect presently, a bad reputation courtesy of the town’s patron will render him a joke. But he cannot run, and it is impolite to ignore an advance.

And Javert cannot lie to himself: his heightened arousal welcomes Madeleine’s presence, this man with his strength and his kindly eyes and his handsome looks. The women of the village speak often of him, in lusty tones and with a spark in their eyes their poor husbands cannot ignite; and now, in this state, Javert recalls parts of their discussions and agrees. It is disgraceful but he is powerless.

Madeleine is close now. He does not appear angered, but anxious.

“Inspector,” he calls. Javert pauses, his breath coming heavily now. He hopes the relative darkness disguises his arousal, the flush of his skin.

Madeleine reaches him and looks him over with troubled eyes. “Inspector, you are unwell.” He speaks softly, in a voice Javert knows the townspeople find reassuring. “You should not be out in this weather; it will do you no good.”

Javert opens his mouth to argue, but it is dry. “Monsieur,” he manages. “I feel quite – ah, quite well.”

It is unconvincing even to Javert’s ears. He regrets having spoken, regrets having deigned to dine in that damnable inn. Madeleine knows none of this, and his next words reflect that. “You are unwell, and you will come with me, Javert,” Madeleine replies, his voice now underlined with a gentle authority. It is one Javert is helpless but to obey.

 

It is only a short distance from the street to Madeleine’s house, but to Javert, with his breathing heavy and erratic and his skin itching, it is almost an impossible feat. Madeleine shortens his stride in pity, and the heat that spreads across Javert’s cheeks now has two causes.

However, he finds that when he nears Madeleine the uncomfortable sensations lessen. It is not to such an extent that it is apparent to any outsider, but the tremors slow and the heat cools ever-so-slightly. His libido, alas, is unaffected; or perhaps, though he tries to deny it to himself, increased.

It is enough to persuade him to stay in step with the Mayor.

 

Javert has visited Madeleine’s home many a time before, but never under such circumstances. He has delivered documents to be signed, warrants and bills, and he has given reports in the strictest confidence and made enquiries. Madeleine had welcomed him in graciously each time, offered food and drink and donations for the benefit of Montreuil-sur-Mer’s paltry police force. Javert is yet to accept.

But now he finds himself led through the doors and past the study in which their interviews are conducted, up a flight of stairs and into the mayor’s own quarters. It is sparse.

Javert wonders idly if Madeleine has ever taken a woman here, like this. He thinks likely not, for the mayor is virtuous in all senses of the word; but now the idea is in his mind and he cannot lose it, and pictures himself in the place of a woman. Madeleine would be gentle, he thinks, though he wills the thought from his mind. He would kiss softly and murmur poetic observations, satisfy with nimble hands before thinking of himself; and when he would take Javert, he would do so slowly, hands stroking along his sides and his thrusts always, _always_ hitting that spot that Javert has heard only whispers of.

“Sit,” says Madeleine. He pushes a low wooden chair from a corner, placing a blanket from his own bed upon it. Javert does as is demanded of him, feeling as a schoolboy might when chided by his favourite professor. He is no colder, and he yearns to rid himself of this persistent itch; but above all, he wishes to know the cause of this ailment. With Madeleine’s move away from  him, the symptoms have returned with a vengeance.

“You need a doctor, Inspector,” Madeleine says, but not unkindly. There is concern in his eyes and in his voice. He has called for his maid to bring water and a cool cloth.

“No,” says Javert, but his own voice sounds weak. “No.” He will not admit to the mayor – this giver of alms, this unrepentant philanthropist – that he cannot afford a doctor or medicine, will not concede to his charity. He will not. He cannot.

The mayor does not seem even to hear his protests, though he looks sharply at Javert as he nears the door. “I will return soon,” he says, remorsefully. “I do not doubt that the doctor will still be awake. I will send someone for him.”

He makes to step out of the room, to leave, and  Javert cannot stop himself: he moans low in his throat, keening softly. The thought of Madeleine’s absence, the feel of it – it is suddenly physically painful, unbearably so.

Madeleine turns, alarmed. He is at Javert’s side before either of them realise.

“Javert?”

He cannot respond, is caught in this torturous web; Madeleine’s absence and sudden return have rendered him speechless, the burning, smouldering heat overwhelming, his arousal – and he can no longer bring himself to refer to it in such elegant terms, not when he is a whimpering wreck and the thoughts he has of Madeleine are so impure – his _cock_ is straining against the cheap fabric of his uniform.

Madeleine kneels beside him. The basin of water and cloth is near, on the low wooden table. Madeleine dampens a corner of the fabric and lifts it to Javert’s forehead.

It is shameful, he knows, to allow Madeleine to treat him in such a manner, to treat him as a mother would treat her sickened child. Javert would object if he felt able to, or perhaps not; his breathing has slowed; the shivers still almost completely, and the cool relief he feels cannot possibly be due to only the water. He does not yet feel normal but he feels good, he feels light and unburdened and –

Madeleine brushes his hair back softly, away from the dampness left by the cloth, and the rough, calloused pads of his fingers just lightly touch Javert’s burning skin – and Javert is _gone,_ his back arching and his hands tightening on the seat of the chair as he releases, a groan escaping him.

When it is over, all too quickly, the shame has Javert curling into himself and dropping his head. He cannot look at the Mayor, does not wish to see the disgust that his face will inevitably bear, the anger that will be in his eyes. The symptoms have returned almost as fast as they had dulled, his bones once again aflame and those now familiar tremors shaking him where he sits. Some of the heat has dissipated, but Javert barely notices, so consumed is he by disgrace and fear.

“Sir,” he manages, and his voice is little more than a scratched croak, muffled by the blanket on his lap. “Sir, I am sorry, I must – ”

“You needn’t apologise, Inspector,” Madeleine says. “I think perhaps a doctor may be unnecessary.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from alt-j's _matilda_


	2. Chapter 2

A beat passes. Madeleine stands and replaces the cloth in its basin, and then he walks to the door, closing it. He does not lock it and so it is clear he does not expect to be disturbed.

When he has done so he returns to stand in front of Javert – not so close as to be imposing but enough that his presence is tangible, and that is sufficient. Perhaps Javert has begun to radiate the heat that swells inside him, for Madeleine removes his cravat and his coat.

He wishes he could do the same, but the tremors have returned with a vengeance and he doubts he could so much as undo a button.

“Javert.” Madeleine’s voice whence he speaks is even, gloriously lacking in sympathy; Javert abhors pity above all other sentiments. “I insist – forgive my impertinence. I suggest you touch yourself.”

It is a reasonable conjecture given the circumstances, but an obscene request; and one that alights something within Javert, a glowing ember in the fire that burns in him bursting to flame. He seizes upon the thought. He cannot help but crave release, long for that moment of ecstasy in which he is free from this torture. Madeleine blessedly understands, or supposes to.

He does not offer to leave or look away, for which Javert is glad: he is spared the shame of asking Madeleine to remain, and the symptoms sting less.

Javert fumbles with his trousers, fingers slipping over the fastenings in his haste and in his frenzy. A larger hand – Madeleine’s hand, cool against the warmth of his own – tangles with his, knocks it gently aside. His trousers are damp with his earlier release but Madeleine does not care, merely undoes the clasps and then removes his hand.

Were Javert more capable of rational and conscious thought, he might notice and contemplate the scars visible below the cuffs of Madeleine's shirt, marring his skin. It has been a long time since he has seen similar. But as it is he does not.

Instead, he takes himself in hand.

It is not often that he does this, but enough. Irrespective of rumour he is not celibate, but partners are far and few between. His reputation amongst the townspeople is marred, sullied by nothing more than the uniform he (figuratively, for his wages are low and tailors expensive) wears. He attracts not coy glances and inviting eyes but downcast gazes and none-too-subtle glares; and, even if he did not command such disrespect, there is another issue to contest. In his most lustful moments he does not think of soft skin and silken hair, nor of supple breast and gentle touch. No, he allows his mind to stray to hard musculature and scarred skin, imagines not a woman below him pliant and pretty, but himself in such a position.

Such thoughts come to him as he slides his palm along the length of his cock; despite his earlier pleasures it is still hard.

His hand is too dry, too rough, the friction combining with the touch to provide both pleasure and pain, but he cannot stop. The heat ceases little – perhaps it requires another’s touch, then – but the sensation is no less.

There is precome on the head of his cock and he wipes his palm across it, glad of something to ease the dry scrape. Javert rocks his hips up, unable to stop the wanton noises escaping him; he looks down for he cannot bear to look at Madeleine in such a state, but neither can he bear to stop. He scrapes his nail along the underside of his cock, the sensitive skin there, and groans, speeds up his strokes as he feels himself near.

He has not felt such _need,_ such pure necessity since his adolescence; and it is with that spirit, that youthful desire and brazenness, that he can bring himself to look upwards and meet Madeleine’s eyes. Madeleine leans close as if to speak, and Javert cannot resist the temptation to close the gap between them both.

Their lips collide, and it is with desperation that Javert kisses him. There is no evidence of the precise, restrained inspector as he pushes himself against Madeleine; he kisses hard and deep and wet, _messy_ , sucking on Madeleine’s tongue as hoarse sounds strain from his throat; he almost lifts himself from the chair with the effort, as Madeleine’s fingers once again find his and he is joining Javert in that obscene act, the rhythm of their joined hands erratic until Javert is spilling wet across their fingers.

And at once, even in his post-release haze, it makes sense: he does not merely yearn for contact and for the slick slide of skin on skin, those coarse fingertips; no, he requires them. They are key, the antidote to this deplorable sickness.

And now he can deny himself nothing.

 

Madeleine has not stepped backwards. Their hands remain tangled, fingers interlocked and smeared with Javert’s come; it is a sight that Javert finds absurdly arousing, and his cock twitches despite itself. This stamina of his is surely a medical impossibility.

Javert lifts his gaze from their clasped hands. “Sir,” he murmurs, and perhaps it is a trick of the light, the flickering candle placed by the bedside, but Madeleine’s eyes darken. “Sir, may I, might I be permitted to pleasure you?”

The absurdity of asking the mayor such a thing, asking to perform such a lewd act, should occur to him; yet in his haze of lust and in his haste it does not. He hungers for it and so it is a privilege for him. Any pleasure Madeleine may derive from the act is superfluous.

Madeleine’s sharp intake of breath is audible.

Javert slides from the chair, the sheet in a tangle with him. It does little to soften the hard stone flooring, and although Javert’s knees will ache later it will be worth it. He loses his grip on Madeleine as he moves, and at once feels the effect; there is a burst of heat in his hand where once Madeleine’s fingers had touched.

But now he has placed himself below Madeleine, and in close proximity to his own arousal. From here it is clear that Madeleine is enjoying this physically, yes, that much is indisputable. But emotionally? It is impossible to tell. Madeleine’s face remains stoic and impassive – or perhaps Javert is so dazed that he cannot recognise the emotion. Both explanations are credible.

Javert presses his face to Madeleine’s thigh, covered by the coarse fabric of his trousers. He nuzzles there gently, revelling in the slight noises it arouses from the mayor.

All the same, he is glad to be spared humiliation when Madeleine reaches down himself to undo the fastenings of his own clothing; Javert, despite the slight lessening of his symptoms, still fears himself unable to – and that is leaving aside the fact that he is moments away from begging, begging for Madeleine to treat him as anyone else would treat a woman of the street.

Once the clasp is loose, Javert takes one of Madeleine’s fingers into his mouth, sucking wetly on it. He had not intended to but now it feels a natural instinct, to pleasure Madeleine in any way possible. He laves his tongue over the knuckle, tastes the dust and the grime of the streets and Madeleine and _himself_. Madeleine utters no sound as Javert slips his mouth around another, two fingers now, but his other hand threads into the hairs at the nape of Javert’s neck. Javert himself is moaning around the digits, his throat convulsing; his cock by now is fully erect again, leaking precome. He is naked from the waist down, resembling some common street whore.

“ _Oh,_ ” Madeleine gasps, and for the first time his speech is neither a question or a command but a lusty exclamation.

But then the fingers are no longer enough. It is with reluctance – and an obscene noise – that Javert slides the fingers from his mouth, or perhaps not reluctance but an inherent unwillingness, an uncontrollable need for this touch and this subservience. But his fingers find Madeleine’s undergarments and tug them down, and he is greeted by a most satisfying sight.

Madeleine is large, as Javert had expected. He groans at the sight of it, in anticipation, and imagines the stretch of it, that length pushing into him roughly, slickened only by spit and sweat, Madeleine merciless just this once; brutality from a man so gentle, and Javert longs to make him so. It is a crude and shameful thought, excused only by his present state.

At once, feeling his mouth begin to water, Javert closes his lips around it. Again Madeleine gasps.

Javert slides his mouth wetly up the length of Madeleine’s cock, slow at first but then increasing in speed for he cannot help himself. He strives to cover his teeth but does not always succeed, but the hiss such a mistake provokes from Madeleine does not always seem to be purely pain.

He take Madeleine as far down as he is able to without gagging, for even lust is susceptible to reflex. Madeleine’s cock is a heavy weight on his tongue, bitter, but Javert finds himself enjoying the act. Perhaps it is wrong, but it feels nothing but right. He presses the heel of his hand to his own arousal, applying a gentle pressure. It is enough.

Madeleine’s hips stutter upwards as Javert mouths at the head of his cock before swallowing down, though he at once stills them so as not to choke Javert; Javert finds himself unopposed to the notion.

The warmth has subsided to a comfortable temperature and he shakes not with the tremors but with pure arousal. It is pleasant, that he will not deny. He could come to enjoy this.

“Javert,” Madeleine murmurs, and the hand threaded in his hair tugs ever so gently. When this incites no response he repeats, “Javert,” and moves his hand to Javert’s cheek. “You must stop, or else I will be unable to –”

“Fuck me,” says Javert, rocking back on his knees; and then at once his face flushes red, his eyes widening.

“If you wish,” Madeleine agrees, voice barely above a whisper; and that promise is enough for Javert, who pushes harder against his straining cock and then comes with a stifled gasp. He produces little but experiences it all the more, trembling through his orgasm; and lo, is it a sight to behold – Javert losing control momentarily, pupils dark and mouth reddened from his earlier actions!  

 

Madeleine waits for Javert to regain composure – insofar as he can – before speaking. “Yes, I will,” he says, and that alone has Javert keening. “But perhaps we ought to retreat to my bed. It will be uncomfortable for you on the floor.”

It is a sensible suggestion, but not without its drawbacks: Javert, in his present condition, wracked from release and from pleasure, knees bruised, requires Madeleine’s help to make the journey across the room. To his credit he accepts it silently, reasoning to himself that no further shame can possibly come upon him than what already has; when one has fallen so far, what has one left to lose? He falls upon Madeleine’s mattress with his breath ragged.

The mayor does not immediately join him but instead opens a small drawer, retrieving from it an object Javert cannot see. As he draws closer it is recognisable as a small vial of oil, the kind reserved for private use.

Madeleine places it upon the bed and then strips off the rest of his garments before crawling onto it. Javert is splayed out, slumped against the pillows with his legs apart like a mistress; Madeleine kneels between them. Javert quivers in anticipation, eyes hungrily Madeleine’s cock between his legs. Already it is slick with his spit.

“You must promise to tell me if I am hurting you,” Madeleine says, and there the concern has returned to his eyes; Javert would laugh if he were not desperate, did not crave the touch. He despises himself for it.

Evidently his consent makes itself known in his expression, for Madeleine slicks his finger with the oil and then reaches down.

As he does so he leans up, a hand and strong arm landing above Javert’s head to support himself; he is stretched across Javert now, the bare length of him, and it is the most wonderful sight. Now they are parallel, one and the same – and his hardness is pressed against Madeleine’s thigh, each slight motion causing the most exquisite friction.

It takes only the pressure of the fingertip for Javert’s hips to rock upwards, a stuttered groan to escape his lips; and when the finger presses further in he pushes against it, the dull pleasure overriding the sparks of pain it ignites. The motion is unexpected by both parties, and Madeleine’s finger slips a knuckle further than he intended to. It is too fast, yes, but Javert does not care; and he is hot and tight around it.

“Javert,” murmurs Madeleine, execrably unmoving inside of him, and Javert can do naught but moan in response. It is an intelligible plead for more, more, _more_ that Madeleine answers with another digit, slickened by the mixture of spit and oil.

It is too much and yet not nearly enough.

When Javert comes this time, his fourth release, it is torn from him and leaves him wracked, breathless. His spine curves as she shakes through, legs hooked around Madeleine’s thighs.

Madeleine does not remove his fingers but looks troubled once again. His left hand, free of responsibility, brushes soothingly Javert’s hair. “Do you wish to continue?”

Such a question! Javert is not sure he especially wishes to – when he had stepped out of his door earlier that evening he had not wished to eat in that cursed inn, had not wished to stumble inadvertently into the path of the mayor and consent to his care – but he knows there can be only one answer. He is no longer so feverish, the tremors no more than the occasional shiver and his mind relatively clear. Already he aches, but he does not feel the pains of earlier. Perhaps one more release and all will return to its normal state, or so he hopes.

“Yes,” he groans. “Yes, _please,_ monsieur –”

Madeleine crooks his fingers and Javert arches up against him.

It is another finger before he is ready, this one stretching him open further as Javert takes it willingly, but he knows it will be little compared to the girth of a cock. But still he moans for it, pushes back into it, for he will take all he can get and this is all Madeleine offers.

“Now?”

Perhaps it is a question or perhaps it is merely a warning, for Madeleine this time does not wait for whatever response Javert can manage before removing his fingers (a slick _pop_ is audible) and positioning himself above Javert. He has slicked his cock with the oil liberally.

And perhaps this act, this ultimate surrender of himself to another does require the thought posed by the question. Is he ready? He does not know. He can be sure of nothing whilst this cursed illness affects him, but all he does know is that he desires Madeleine, desires the man within him and around him.

The shame still curls in his stomach.

“Ah, _please –“_ Javert chokes on his plea, for Madeleine has entered him and it is as if he is suddenly free.

There is a burn that accompanies the pleasure, a burn separate from that of his skin, a sting that tells him it has been too long since he has been last taken this way. But it is not so overpowering that the pleasure is not apparent, and the _pleasure_ is an entity unto itself: a wave of bliss that shudders across Javert’s skin and leaves him sinking boneless into the sheets, a sigh escaping his lips.

Madeleine is fully inside him, braced over him; but it is only when Javert emits another small moan that he begins to move.

He is perhaps more gentle than Javert would like, or rather his arousal would like, but nonetheless he is moving, hips rolling and muscles shining with sweat. Madeleine is not clinical in his actions – the flush of his cheeks, the eagerness in his movements betrays any pretence of that ilk – but methodical. He observes Javert’s reaction to each thrust, categorises each sound and wracked moan, and adjusts accordingly.

Under his close scrutiny Javert grows hotter. He groans and gasps and clutches at both the sheets and Madeleine, scratching with his short nails. He tips back his head and tightens his fingers in Madeleine’s hair when the man mouths at his neck, leaving wet trails of kisses and sucking bruises into the pale, unblemished skin; it must be uncomfortable for Madeleine for his knuckles are white, but he hears no complaint.

The bed shifts with each thrust. Javert is bent, pushing back eagerly to meet Madeleine’s hips, and he is breathless with the exertion but it is _worth_ it, Christ, nothing has ever been so deserving of effort as this.

Why had he thought this sinful? This is the purest pleasure known to man, this simple act. He is spurred on by some unknown force, so much is true, but the voice inside of him he knows to be his own is equally vocal.

This time Javert is able to stave off his release until Madeleine has stilled, grunting lowly as he spills inside Javert, inside his heat; and then he allows himself to come, wetting both their stomachs for the fifth and final time. The burn inside of him is no more than a gentle flame now, like the candle with its short wick and dearth of wax. It is not yet normal but it is comfortable.

Madeleine lifts himself off Javert, who exhales shakily. Soon he will be rid of this terrible affliction; soon he will no longer require the touch of this man to cease his crippling pain. But the tremors have ceased and the fever is down and all he feels now is fatigue.

The events that have occurred in the past hours are too much to attempt to consider, to explain away now. The effort required to justify them to himself will be inconceivable. He is not ready to attempt such a feat.

“You are tired,” Madeleine says, in a soft voice that is usually reserved for small children or a loved one. “Sleep now.”

The blankets are far softer than his own when Madeleine eases them from underneath him and lays them across his sore, aching body. It is mere minutes before he is consigned to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Javert awakens to the pale sunlight that seeps through the thin drapes. If he has dreamt of anything he does not remember it.

Foremost he aches. It is not a sharp pain but sore, as if his entire body has been bruised, and his limbs protest each movement. It is as if each muscle has been stretched and each bone broken, his organs burnt by the fire that had ravaged inside of him. This cannot possibly be only the result of last night’s events, for Madeleine had been so devastatingly gentle; perhaps the illness had heightened not only his arousal but also his pain. Javert has suffered beatings in his years, served as the object of convicts’ anger and the scapegoat for his father’s misdemeanours, but none has left him so thoroughly weary, so wholly aching as pleasure.

And what pleasure it had been! His memory too has been affected, clouded by whatever cruel concoction had caused his irrepressible arousal, but he recalls enough. Madeleine makes a kind lover. He had listened and acted accordingly, allowed Javert to set the pace and followed him willingly. Javert is a man of the law for good reason – and to see Madeleine obey him for his own sake!

Their actions had not been illegal in the eyes of the law, but now Javert pays in the tightening of his muscles. The pain is too much; he cannot bring himself to sit up but is able to look across the room.

In the daylight – and in his calmed state – the quarters appear all the more sparse. Modest as its occupant, the room contains little more than the simple wooden bed he lies upon, a cabinet, the chair and its low table; were it not for the hearth Javert would think it a prison cell.

It does not occur to him until now to consider where Madeleine might have slept, given his own occupancy of the bed; but then he notices the thin blanket strewn across the hard flooring in one corner of the room. Madeleine had not left him alone, not even for the comfort of a maid’s requisitioned bed – and Javert is both surprised and gratified by this revelation. He cannot attribute these emotions to that damned sickness.

Madeleine himself is knelt beside the small hearth. Near to it is a large tin bath, half-filled with water; yet more is heating over the flickering fire. It is only at the sound of Javert’s voice that Madeleine turns.

“Monsieur le Maire,” he begins, but his mouth is dry. He has not drunk since the wine of the inn had sated his thirst the previous day – and he purposely does not allow his mind to wander to the activities of the previous evening which may have wracked his throat.

Madeleine rises, retrieves a small glass of water from the table. To think of Madeleine making these preparations, carefully considering Javert’s ailments and needs, having his maid fetch water from the well – or Madeleine himself, perhaps, would have done it – is strange, but not unwelcome. Javert may dislike pity and scorn charity but he will not reject care, and he is appreciative.

Madeleine raises the glass towards Javert’s mouth, but upon seeing his wince as he reaches to take it holds it to Javert’s lips himself, tips it slowly that he might drink. His other hand again brushes the hair away from Javert’s forehead.

 “You slept well,” Madeleine tells him, quietly. There is honesty in his eyes, the type of which Javert has not seen for a long time. “I feared you may not.”

He replaces the glass on the table.

“I thought you may like to bathe, or there is food if you would like that first.”

Javert does hunger, yes; there is a low rumble in his stomach. But the filth that remains on his skin is the more pressing issue. He can feel his own release dried on his abdomen, the sweat rendering his skin greasy, the oil in his lower regions, and it is both uncomfortable and a shameful reminder. The itch has returned, but now it is not the interior itch but that of his skin.

“I’d like to wash,” Javert says, as loudly as his scratched throat allows, and adds with uncharacteristic courtesy, “please.”

Perhaps Madeleine’s aptitude for correct assumptions should unnerve him, but here Javert is grateful; Madeleine seems to have recognised the ache that consumes him, his difficulty in movement. It is absurd, but Javert cannot help but to blush as the mayor helps him to stand. He is still naked. This is a man that took him just hours ago, witnessed his wanton moans and displays of insatiable lust; and yet still he is embarrassed to have this man see him bare.

But Madeleine’s eyes do not flick appreciatively up the length of his body, nor does he laugh or flush high in his cheeks. No, he remains respectful, far from stoic but hardly animated. He handles Javert with a measured tenderness that has Javert’s own cheeks reddening.

The water of the bath, when Javert sits in it, is high enough to cover him to the waist and warmed by the fire. The soap and cloth lie on the floor beside it.

He meets Madeleine’s gentle, kindly eyes. Within them, masked by concern and age, is something of a strange hesitance. “Please,” murmurs Javert, again.

He has allowed Madeleine to take him. He has pressed himself onto the man and debased himself so thoroughly; he has had the man carry him to bed and kissed him. To have the man touch him with purer intent is surely a minor event.

But still, the care with which Madeleine slowly lathers the soap in his hands before touching it first to Javert’s chest is intimate. He presses gently, rubbing small smooth circles against the tender skin. It is not for the purposes of arousal nor release. Neither of them possesses the urgency of the previous evening, and Javert does not wish to be satisfied, merely to be rid of the evidence. He says nothing but lifts his elbows – the muscles there twinge and cause him to flinch – so that Madeleine might better clean his ribs and his stomach, his breath inadvertently catching. He will not apologise for his reactions.

The soap is cold but Madeleine’s hands are warm.

They smooth the slick soap across his shoulders, the tension there; and Javert sighs but does not lift his eyes from the water. Across his arms and his neck, marked and marred by the scars of a prison guard and of the son of a convict; and then the touch is gone as Madeleine moves to his back.

It is quiet in the room. The only noise is the faint birdsong outside, the ripple of the water and Madeleine’s slow application of the soap. Javert has never been treated in this manner. His mother had never a bath to wash him in; and if she had, he does not expect she would have known how. In prison the rain cleans you and the walls sully you. But Madeleine, with his gentle touch and his comfort, cannot know that.

He continues, touch on the curve of Javert’s spine. He is muscled but lightly so, fit not from hard labour but from days spent walking the streets, searching for those who think the law too earthly for themselves.

When he nears Javert’s waist Madeleine pauses.

“Shall I –” he murmurs, and for once it is he who cannot quite express himself.

But his dignity aside Javert is sore below, his skin tendered. He longs for the softness of the soap to soothe him; and it seems fitting that Madeleine, having caused such discomfort, should remedy it. He will allow it. He makes his consent known.

Madeleine’s touch at first feels foreign, although he is aware that is bizarre. But Madeleine brushes the soap, diluted by the water, over his thighs and then to the small of his back. He dips below. It is not erotic but nor is it cold.

Next he places the soap aside. The cloth – different from yesterday’s, of a softer fabric – is retrieved and Madeleine dampens it in the water before wiping slowly across Javert’s chest. It is not only the soap that is removed but the weight on his chest as the cloth is so gently brushed across him.

And the mayor is so gentle.

And neither has done wrong.

Once Javert is clean Madeleine stands – “Don’t worry, I am not leaving,” he murmurs, for Javert must appear stricken – and takes the blanket from the corner. It is not dirtied by the floor.

The warm water has soothed his tensed muscles; and whilst the ache is not entirely absent, whilst he will perhaps feel the residual pain for days to come, he finds himself able to move more freely now. With a hand from Madeleine he is able to lift himself from the bath and step into the blanket’s warm surround.

But still he allows Madeleine to guide him to the bed and seat him there; and once he has done so Madeleine speaks. The question when it comes is sudden.

“Inspector, I must know,” Madeleine says. “Do you regret our actions?”

Does he? Truly it had been not for his own benefit but to curb the effects of the illness so suddenly brought upon him, but Javert had consented. He had begged, even. He had longed for release and for the relief of his symptoms, for rest, but never for Madeleine to stop.  No, he is not ashamed, for he acted under the influence of this foreign force.

Javert shakes his head and pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

“I regret only my decision to dine in that inn.”


End file.
